


An exceptionally bad time

by ThaFost



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 14:32:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThaFost/pseuds/ThaFost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Lestrade is fired from the Yard after Reichenbach, he drinks away his money. Eventually Lestrade gets him living again, and employed. Not quite Mystrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An exceptionally bad time

It was a day before Internal Affairs brought Gregory Lestrade into a formal investigation. Two weeks passed before he was officially out of a job, and another week before Donovan had his office. Out of work, and name smeared, Lestrade sat at home, wishing the world wasn’t so swayed. Sherlock knew… had known his ex was sleeping with someone whilst they had been patching things up. Sherlock definitely had not been behind that.

It didn’t take long to see the strain in his bank account. Drinking and smoking away his last dollars, he found himself standing on the curb one night. His landlord had changed the locks. He was to leave an address for his items to be shipped to. A shiny black car pulled up, a young woman stepped out. Approaching him gently, she took the paperwork from his hands and scribbled an address down. “Please get into the car Greg.” His tired legs found their way into the car. They drove through the city he loved. The one he had sworn to protect, but the city had turned its back on him. Close to the very heart of the city, the car stopped outside a flat. The woman ushered him out, and he stood outside staring at the door buzzer. In a refined script, he saw a familiar name, M. Holmes. Pushing a finger tentatively towards the button, the door swung open before he could reach it.

“So nice to see you again Greg. Do come in.” Mycroft had a first floor apartment. It was pretty sparse in decoration. The walls were white, and the curtains were drawn. Several screens displaying security feed sat in the middle of the room. “I must keep track of things at home, better than I do at work. There is a bed made up for you in the room down the hall on the right.”

“I didn’t ask you for a hand out.” His voice was strained, but he knew that Mycroft heard him.

“One Holmes brother ruined your name. Let another rebuild it?” Warm hands lay on his shoulders and push him gently to the room mentioned, Greg turns the doorknob, and opens the door. A pretty bare room is on the other side. Slate grey bedding is the only real color, not that it’s a color in the first place, but rather a shade. “Do I need to put you too bed, too?”

“I’m not that drunk tonight.”

“Greg, with the years we both spent tending Sherlock, and the time I’ve spent monitoring you for good measure, I’ve come to care for your well being as much as I care about anyone, which is to say, not at all. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Mykie.” The eyeroll was almost audible to Greg as he stepped into the room, and shut the door behind him. Sleep came fast.

There were clothes laid out for him in the morning. The suit wasn’t his, but it was his measurements. He put it on, but left the tie on the dresser. Stepping out into the hallway, he met Mycroft who extendned a shaving razor and a can of deoderant. A few moments passed, and Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Taking the items tenatively Greg asked, “Am I really that bad?”

Mycroft didn’t answer, he only opened the bathroom door and stalked off. Looking into the mirror, Greg saw a face he didn’t like looking back at him.

After cleaning up, the two men rode to Mycroft’s workplace. Twenty secrecy agreements and other fun tests later, Lestrade was officially an employee of the crown. Official duties included standing next to Mycroft and looking intimidating at all the people he had to talk to. On the rare occasion Mycroft needed to be alone, he was posted at the door. Working for Mycroft had its perks, for one thing, he had the best donuts lying around. A few months passed, and Lestrade’s things came to Mycroft’s place. He put a few things out in the living room, but kept most of it in his room. Work replaced the smoking, but drinking stayed a firm part of his life. Working with Mycroft seemed nice, but living in his flat felt out of sorts. Greg wasn’t exceedingly proud, but it still felt like a hand out. After a few long discussions, Mycroft finally allowed Greg to pay what he said was half, although Greg was sure it was less than that, of the rent.

Weekends were spent amirably. On nights that there were no social engagements Mycroft needed Greg at, he watched football and got pissed. Greg that is. Mycroft preferred sitting in his armchair reading top secret documents tutting at Gregory’s lack of decorum when the other team scored. It was April before this routine changed. Greg was in his cups, and into the second match of the day. Mycroft was reading, but was interrupted by a phone call. Mycroft spoke very quietly, but Gregory could sense the frustrated rage the other man was feeling. Greogry continued to watch the match. Towards the end they came to a shoot out. Manchester United made two shots. As Aston Villa came to its first shot, Mycroft shouted at the phone. Looking back to the television, they had made the shot. The next missed. The third hit the mark. Fourth missed again, and as the kicker came to meet the ball for the fifth kick, the screen clicked off. “Oy! I was watching that!”

“And now you are not,” Mycroft replied. “I need you to go tonight. Stay somewhere else.” Gregory sat his half drunk can of beer on the table next to a few empties.

“Myc, I’m sloshed. I’m not up for going anywhere.”

“Surely your ex-wife…?”

“I lost my partial custody due to my scandal with the police. I can’t go see her.”

“John’s… a friend.”

“He’s hardly able to visit. I mean, me, him. He’s living with Harry and whatever her girlfriend’s name is. No one on the force will talk to me. Not now. Not after—-”

“After I ruined your name.” Two heads turned in the room. Sherlock stood in the doorway, looking quite worse for wear. A large gash across his forehead had started to coagulate. His nose looked broken, even to Greg’s beer hazed eyes. Unsteadily rising to his feet, Gregory walked to the place where Sherlock stood, and punched him in the face.

After he had satisfied his anger, Greg swayed on his feet. Mycroft tended to his brother’s pained face, but none of Greg’s anger had caused much additional damage. “Hello to you too Greg.”

Mycroft helped Sherlock to his feet. Nw that Greg was really looking, Sherlock looked pretty awful, even for a dead guy. His eyes were dilated. His hair was cut short, but id hung down in the front. He was blonde now, and he had several days of stubble. It didn’t suit him very well. His clothes were torn and dirty. His shirt sleeves were short, and even drunk, he could see the angry trackmarks there.

“Sherlock needs somewhere to stay tonight. Somewhere that won’t tell John or leave any traces.” Mycroft stepped between the men. “You might be my friend, but I have no qualms about dumping your dead body in an alley.” Greg felt a shiver run down his spine, as there was something very sexual about the way Mycroft was moving. His smile was predatory.

“Mycroft, why not tell John? He’s hurting without Sherlock.”

“His flat is monitored. We’re sure of it. This apartment is the only safe place for me to run to.” Sherlock was quiet. His voice wasn’t grating like it was when he was explaining things before. “Moriarty’s contacts are still woven tight. I have to finish them all up. It’s tougher than I thought it was going to be.” Sherlock leaned forward to whisper into Mycroft’s ear.

“That solution is unacceptable.”

“Why?”

“I have nothing in this house that will produce that effect.” He was still facing Greg, but he took a bottle from Sherlock. Looking down at it, he turned to his brother at last.

“Delightful.”

 

Gregory’s head was fuzzy at best. Truly, it felt like he had been hammered yesterday, and not the fun kind. He searched his memories, but he drew a blank. A warm arm was curled around his waist. Strong fingers free of callous were splayed across his stomach. Warm breath puffed against his neck. Boxers were still on, strangely enough, but he still felt an erection digging into his backside. Not remembering what happened kind of ruined the mood. Although, it did feel nice grinding his hips back against the unknown man. The motion elicited a moan from the man. The hand on his belly dipped down, seeking for something before the arm and man withdrew. Greg turned over, but the man had his back to him. “What.. what’s wrong?”

The other man bowed his head. Then he turned to face Gregory. It was Mycroft, and his eyes were downcast. “Last night, do you remember it?”

“No. But if I woke up in bed with you it can’t have all been bad, couldit?”

Mycroft didn’t reply. He got dressed quietly and left.

Greg lay in the bed for quite some time before he got up.

Sherlock was long gone, and Greg wouldn’t know.

He would wonder why Mycroft wouldn’t accept any gifts, or why he took the female assistants to social events now.

But for a moment that morning, the Ice Man had melted.

That was unacceptable.


End file.
